WHEN that slim treader of the air, the wind,
Bends her long dances through the archèd green,
In the thin air no footprint can I find,
And no man has that sealèd vision seen.
Is there no herb-o’-grace to touch my eyes,
That I may see as tree or flower sees,
Behold the incense from the grasses rise,
Vision the swaying motion of the breeze ?
— There, where the laurel and the sunshine meet,
Is it but laurel, vibrant in the light?
Or do a lover and a maiden greet,
She still a-tremble from her sudden flight ?
There, where the quiver of his rays is poured,
Is it shy Daphne, yielding to her lord ?